


Angel of Music, Master of Magnetism

by Space_Time_Clio



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Also featuring: others, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Cherik - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Phantom of the Opera AU, the book not the musical though, there will also be romance and masquerades, there will be violence but it won't be too graphic, this just needed to be done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2019-08-29 11:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Time_Clio/pseuds/Space_Time_Clio
Summary: Charles Xavier is the newest and best singer at The Palias Garnier - but how did that come to be? The story of a young telepathic performer and his magnetic Angel of Music, or the story of how Erik became the Phantom of the Opera and kidnapped it's most prized performer, take your pick. To feature: bad jokes, meta jokes, romance, tragedy, and probably more characters than I listed in the tags.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first fic and I don't really know how to do this, so advice is appreciated! Just needed to write and this needed to be written. I'll be putting notes and warnings at the beginning of every chapter.
> 
> Speaking of - a character in this chapter is killed. It's not thoroughly described since it's second hand information, but the man is speared through. It's very short, so if you want to skip it, you're more than welcome to.
> 
> This first chapter is mainly just setting up the story, so we don't quite get to cherik or any of the fun stuff yet, but hang in there!

Jean was relaxing, getting ready to make her goodbye speech to the managers, when the entire ballet troupe ran into her dressing room.

This was not unexpected, necessarily. They all had, after all, just finished their last dance, and they all often came to Jean’s room to relax or gossip about which of them had the most prestigious caller (Jean was winning - Count Summers was the richest client the opera had). What was unexpected was Kurt’s shout.

“The ghost! I saw the Opera Ghost!”

Jean rolled her eyes and set down her draft of her speech. All of the kids were always seeing the Opera Ghost - menace of the opera, a man who didn’t make a sound when he moved, appeared out of nowhere, and never showed his face. It was a favorite topic of discussion amongst the teens.

“Oh, did you?” Jean asked, turning around. “And what did he look like?”

“He was tall! And wearing dress clothes! He was wearing that helmet, too...I couldn’t see his face, but I could see his eyes! They were glowing in the dark! I can’t imagine how horrid he looks up close…”

Jean sighed. “If you’re going to say you saw the Opera Ghost, can’t you be a little more creative? That’s the same description we always get, Kurt.”

“No, it’s true!” Ororo chimed in. “I saw him too, he floats!”

“Well of course he floats, he’s a ghost!” Kitty added, batting Kurt’s nervously flicking tail away from her.

“There’s no such thing as the Opera Ghost.” Jean said, but she didn’t sound very confident, even to herself.

“Sure there is! Trask knows all about him!” Kurt added, snatching his tail away from Kitty and holding it close to his chest. “He’s seen the ghost more than anyone! Go ask him!”

Jean frowned. “You shouldn’t be listening to Trask, he’s delusional, and a creep besides. He tells you those stories just to scare you. You know he doesn’t like mutants, he’s probably chasing around some other poor stagehand and saying he’s the ghost. Now calm down, all of you! I have to deliver a speech, and we’re all having a going away party, aren’t we?”

The hysteria in the room was visibly dampened. 

“Good. And on our way up, we should go congratulate Charles. You all know how stressful this night was going to be one him…”

“He’s doing so well though!” Ororo added, all signs of fear gone. “I could hear him as we were coming down - he sounded angelic! I hope the new manager will let him sing the main part again…”

“I’m sure he’d love to hear that.” Jean said, smiling as she opened the door out into the hallway. She led the troupe out and toward the stairs, and nearly ran directly into Count Summers. He grabbed her arms to keep her from falling. Jean was about to apologize for being so clumsy, when he pulled her into a hug. “God, I’m so glad you’re ok!”

“Scott?” Jean asked, a little embarrassed and afraid, “what do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be ok? What’s going on?”

Scott pulled away from Jean far enough to look her in the face. “You didn’t hear? A man’s been murdered down here, Jean!”

The troupe huddled closer together. Kitty was brave enough to ask “Who was it? What happened to him?”

A policeman pushed past the Count. “The stage manager, Trask. One of the metal beams went right through him.”

The policeman carried on, but the troupe was all up in arms again.

“It was the Ghost!”

“No! Don’t say that!”

“Trask was snooping around too much!”

“He’ll come for us next!”

 The shouts floated through the shadows, and reached the ears of the phantom himself. For the first time in a long time, he smiled.

\----

Even though everyone had told him he was doing well, Charles was nervous.

Emma Frost had called in sick, just like the Angel had said she would. Just as he said, Charles was chosen to sing her part instead. Marguerite, in  _ Faust _ . Can’t get a better debut than that. 

The whole of the ballet troupe and the other operatic singers encouraged him in between scenes, but Charles still didn’t feel good enough. Not that he didn’t have faith in his Angel, of course he did - he was just afraid of disappointing him. His father told him, years ago, that when he went to heaven he would send the Angel of Music down to watch over Charles, to help him improve, and now Brian is dead and the Angel is with him.

It’s the last song. He can do this. For Brian Xavier, for the Angel.

The curtains opened, and Charles didn’t pay attention to anyone. He isn’t Charles anymore, he’s Marguerite. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and sang.

And it was spectacular.

His voice was loud and clear, perfectly pitched and in tune. The emotion he poured into his performance, in Marguerite's last scene....the audience wept, they were enraptured. Patrons that frequented the opera were almost angry - how dare the managers keep this beauty hidden from them for this long? Those who had never heard opera fell in love with music as soon as they heard his voice. If you asked anyone who went to Charles Xavier’s debut performance, they’d tell you that he was the angel in the opera that night.

And he knew it. Charles was singing, in front of the most important people in all of Paris, and he sounded amazing. At the end, he caught his breath and bowed to the racacious cheers of the crowd. Roses fell on stage, there were calls for him to sing again. He was proud. He felt exhilarated. 

And the second the curtain fell, he fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief interlude from Erik's perspective as the Opera Ghost - next chapter we'll finally find out what happened to poor Charles. Enjoy!

To be fair, Erik never asked to be the Opera Ghost.

But, you know, if you see an opportunity, you should take it. 

It’s unreasonable to confine oneself to a cellar, so he had to leave eventually. And, as sneaky as he is, he was bound to run into some sort of stagehand or maintenance person at some point. What was funny is that they started the rumour that he was a ghost. Erik’s fully aware that his face is ghastly, that his eyes can look like they’re glowing, and that in general he can be a haunting presence… but you run into a well dressed man wearing a mask in the bowels of an opera house and your automatic assumption is that you’ve met a ghost? Really, if people are going to be that stupid, you might as well profit off of it.

And he had. Two thousand francs a month was paid out to him to stop his shenanigans, and he was allowed a private box at every opera. The poor superstitious managers had never called  the police or investigated the blackmail - you can’t arrest a ghost! Dear Mystique was kind enough to leave the mysterious visitor his bank notes and sweets from time to time, and Azazel got off his back about finding something stable. He rarely even felt a need to come and nag Erik anymore. It was comfortable. Sure, it might’ve been lonely too, but Erik didn’t expect anything more.

Also, to be fair, Erik had never asked to be a tutor.

One of the benefits to the opera house was that Erik could hear music all the time. It was his one passion, the one thing that allowed him to escape every once in a while. He composed, he wrote, he sang, but only when no one else was there to hear him. Otherwise, there was always the opera, and the joy of hearing young talented voices train to become one of the greats.

Well, it wasn’t all talented voices. Call Erik a snob, but Miss Frost sounds better singing quietly. Her voice just isn’t suited to the bigger, more difficult parts, no matter how hard she tries to make it. And oh does she try. Mostly, Erik just felt sorry for the poor girl. She’s a primadonna, but she doesn’t have the voice to merit her fame.

Now Charles, on the other hand…

Erik had first heard Charles sing at his audition. It was passable, and Erik had no contempt for the managers for letting him into the chorus. He did get better, a meek but fairly good singer on the stage.

But Erik hadn’t heard Charles  _ sing  _ until he got a dressing room to himself.

And oh, his voice was beautiful! Clearly untrained, but with so much potential! The boy just must not have the confidence to sing, because what he did alone was far above what he had done on stage!

He knew it was bad, he knew it would be trouble, but Erik couldn’t help himself. He made a habit of coming up to listen to Charles practice from behind the wall.

But even the most diligent of students (which is what Charles was, even before he came under Erik’s tutelage) could make frustrating mistakes.

It was a day of making frustrating mistakes, and Erik had had it. The sixth time Charles missed the high note he was shooting for, Erik forgot himself.

“Good God! You aren’t warming up correctly! Your voice is an instrument, if you took care of it you’d be able to hit the high E!”

The other side of the wall went silent, and Erik realized his mistake. He prayed silently that Charles would think Erik’s voice came from outside his door, or he would ignore the voice as a whole. Erik had no such luck.

“Hello? Who are you? How come I can’t sense your mind?”

A telepath. Charles was a telepath. That helped a little. Erik had already learned to protect his secrets from telepaths. But Charles knew, and he’d be uncomfortable and scared if he got no answer. He might leave. He might request a different, inaccessible dressing room. At least, that’s what Erik told himself when he decided to engage in conversation.

“No one can sense my mind. I am...here and not here.”

“Like a ghost?” Charles asked, sounding incredulous. Before Erik could, he continued, quieter “Or...do you....do you happen to know Brian Xavier?”

Erik certainly knew of Brian Xavier. “The violinist? Who would play and tell stories on the steps of this opera house? Yes, I know him.”

There was silence on the other side of the wall for a while, and then finally “Are you...this is ridiculous, it can’t be...but are you...are you the Angel of Music that my father sent to me?”

And Erik knew it was wrong, he knew it was, but he sounded so hopeful, and though he had never talked to Charles before now, he knew that he didn’t ever want to disappoint Charles. “Yes,” Erik answered, “I am your Angel of Music.” He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the guilt in the pit of his stomach. “Now, about your warm ups…”

And that’s it. Suddenly, Erik was an invisible tutor. It wasn’t long before Charles was ready to take a leading part, and a little vial slipped into Miss Frost’s tea ensured he would get his debut. Charles would sing, Charles would be the greatest opera singer that Paris had ever seen, because the greatest vocalist to ever exist was tutoring him in secret. His Angel of Music, a friend, and as the classes progressed, almost like something more...but still, Erik remained invisible. He would remain invisible. Charles would be amazing, and Erik would be satisfied in watching proudly from the sidelines.

At least, that’s what he told himself. Really, Erik didn’t know how long he could keep this up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the late update, but I'm trying to get out a chapter a week. Good news, Charles is alright! Sort of

Charles woke up in his dressing room, with a doctor and concerned friends hovering over him. He blinked his eyes open and watched blurry shapes solidify as the doctor explained that he had had a fainting spell. The face of one of the girls slowly came into focus, and…oh. Oh no.

“Monsieur Xavier? Charles? Are you alright, monsieur?”

This can’t be happening.

She smiled. “Do you remember me, monsieur? I am the girl from the beach - you rescued my red scarf once.”

Charles swallowed heavily and looked away from her. “No, mademoiselle, I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

Her smile faltered. She reached for his hand. “Dear monsieur, surely you remember! There was dancing, your father’s violin music, his stories…”

Charles shook his hand and gently pulled his hand out of hers. “No, no, I’m sorry…” the Angel would be so disappointed if he said yes…

“Monsieur, please…”

He couldn’t take this. Charles prompted the doctor to usher everyone out of his room, something he wouldn’t’ve done if he was clear headed. To be fair, Dr. McCoy seemed to know what he was doing and was heading towards that conclusion himself, Charles just hurried him along. Dr. McCoy stood and took his spectacles off his large blue nose. “Countess MacTaggert, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Monsieur Xavier needs to rest.”

“But...Charles, please, you can’t avoid me…”

“Countess, you have to step outside.” Dr. McCoy insisted, gently herding her and the other admirers out the door. Charles breathed a sigh of relief. 

\--

Moira and Charles had been friends, when they were younger. Though Moira’s governess objected to her mingling with the commoners, even she couldn’t deny that Charles was a suitable playmate. And if Charles might’ve influenced that decision, what’s the harm?

They were fond of listening to Brian play. They would often dance in the streets while he played, which attracted a larger crowd. When he was done playing, he would sit down with the kids and tell them stories, of far off lands and fairy tales, of the Angel of Music. When they got bored or antsy, as children are prone to do, Charles and Moira ran along the beach, playing in the sand and chasing the waves. Charles had, once, leapt into the sea after a red scarf that the wind had snatched off Moira’s neck, without any regard for his clothes or the cold. Upon returning the scarf, Moira had kissed his cheek. That was the first time Charles understood why the adults joked about them courting.

They might’ve made a nice couple, if they had been from the same station. Moira went off to finishing school and learned to become a lady, the practical heir to the MacTaggert fortune. She didn’t have time for Charles’ dreams anymore, but she never forgot the boy from the beach.

Now that she was older, Moira had to start playing the marriage game. While it might’ve been more appropriate to go after the prominent men in Paris, the countess kept frequenting the Palais Garnier just to see one face. She had casually left presents in his dressing room, had given her patronage to the opera house, but this is the first night that she had the courage to speak to him. 

 

And he had lied to her.

He must have! Charles has eidetic memory, he had complained about it as a child. And even if he hadn’t, their friendship would surely been memorable. They were childhood sweethearts! He wouldn’t’ve forgotten, and Charles wasn’t the type to pay attention to class difference. Why did he lie?

Moira stood outside Charles’ door, giving him some time before she knocked to confront him. She had just raised her fist to knock when she heard voices within. The first was a deep, enchanting voice that she didn’t recognize.

“You sang well tonight, Charles. How do you feel?”

She heard Charles respond, “Tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead.”

The other voice softened. “Your soul is a beautiful gift, my friend. I’m flattered to be the recipient.”

Moira pulled back from the door in shock. That sounded like...well, if Charles had a male suitor, that would be a good reason to hide from her. But a man hiding in his dressing room? That sounded dangerous, in many ways. She had to confront him, and convince him that he is playing with fire with this male suitor. It would be easier, safer, better, if he allowed himself to accept her patronage. Perhaps to court her, if he would be inclined to pick up where they left off. But it wouldn’t have to be. She just cared for Charles, she wanted him to be safe.

She turned on her heel and walked quickly upstairs, and out of the opera house, not bothering to go up to the party. She was confused, worried, and a bit frantic. She had a letter to write.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had a happy holiday! We'll get back to Charles and Erik in the next chapter, for now we must get to know the new manager of the Palais Garnier and the trials that await him...

While Charles was talking with his mysterious suitor, a celebration was going on upstairs to say goodbye to the old managers. There was much ceremony, and good little Jean gave her farewell speech. Everyone was sad to see the kind managers go, but word had it that they were both set to retire in comfort, and no one could begrudge them that. The new manager was there, and he became the subject of the whispers that flooded the grand ballroom.

This new manager, a Monsieur Stryker, had been an officer in the French army, and had spent time in the mediterranean. He was outspoken about his politics, and people tended to believe him because he was more “worldly” than they were. Despite the rumours that his own son was a mutant, Stryker was known to be anti-mutant. He would be the first manager to not have a co-manager, and the older patrons of the opera house worried that it would mean that Stryker’s personal tastes would reign unchecked. Though he assured everyone employed by and frequenting the Palais Garnier that his personal politics would not affect the performances, workers and patrons alike were wary of him.

Stryker seemed appropriately comfortable at the party, however, right until the previous managers took him out to his new office. They shook his hand, wished him luck, and advised him to read both the manager’s manual (especially the portions written in red) and the letter waiting for him on his new desk. Stryker thanked them, bid them goodbye, and decided to get to work.

The manager’s manual had advice on everything, from how to choose leads to how to hire stagehands and what to pay them to which kinds of patrons to be especially kind to. It was easy for Stryker to spot the rules written in red -- they were written in large, carefully constructed cursive, and most certainly were not written in red  _ ink _ . Stryker laughed a little to himself at this wild prank, but wanted to make it known that he would not be fooled. He tried to call the old managers back to him, and when he’d found they’d left, he called up Madame Darkholme, the Palais Garnier ticket lady and unofficial head of staff.

Madame Darkholme was a tall, dignified woman who could be called shockingly beautiful. Shockingly, because she chose to stay in her natural form most of the time, with blue scaled skin and bright red hair. Though she chose to wear high collared dresses and elaborate hats, she by no means tried to hide her gift, and encouraged her boy Kurt, in the ballet, to do the same. She only transformed when necessary or when asked politely, or sometimes when a young girl was nervous about how she’d look in a costume and Madame Darkholme felt motherly enough to humour her. She was a no nonsense woman, and therefore did not appreciate Stryker calling her up from the party to tell her off about a supposed prank that she had no part in.

However, once Stryker began explaining, she immediately interrupted. “Oh, that is no prank, Monsieur. Those are the Opera Ghost’s rules.”

“That is exactly what I’m saying,” Stryker replied impatiently, “there cannot be special rules for a person which does not exist. Now you interrupted me, if you’d allow me to finish--”

“But Monsieur,” Madame Darkholme interrupted again, “he does exist. The Opera Ghost has more power here than any manager ever has. If you disobey his rules, there will be consequences.”

“You’re telling me,” Stryker said, pointing at the offending rule, “that if I fail to pay a  _ ghost  _ 2,000 francs I will, what, be haunted?”

“He already haunts us, Monsieur. I’m afraid the consequences will be more grave than that.”

Stryker scoffed. “What does a ghost want with money anyway?”

“I don’t make it my business to question him Monsieur.” Madame Darkholme said impatiently. “Didn’t he leave you a letter of explanation?”

“Indeed he did. I haven’t read it yet.” 

“Then do so now. If you will excuse me --”

“No, Madame. Stay while I read it, please. I might have more questions for you.”

Madame Darkholme huffed but remained in the manager’s office. She already resented Stryker, but she wouldn’t begin a fight on her first day. She knew how to pick her battles. While she stood there with her arms crossed, Stryker opened the letter which read as follows:

_ Monsieur Stryker, _

_ As you are new, I’ll go easy on you. Only remember my salary of 2,000 francs per month for now, and I will continue to require Box 5 to be at my disposal. Despite my disgust at your anti-mutant beliefs, I hope to have a professional arrangement with you. Otherwise, I will take pleasure in showing you just what you’re dealing with. I shall accept my salary in an envelope delivered to Madame Darkholme. She will know how to get it to me. _

_ -Opera Ghost _

“What is this idiocy? A ghost who writes letters in blood, and demands not only a salary, but box seating as well?”

“Yes, Monsieur, Box 5 is his and his alone.”

“We never sell it? That’s unreasonable! When is the next show?”

“Tomorrow night, Monsieur.”

“Do you expect it to sell out?”

“If Monsieur Xavier sings again, it will.”

“Good. I want you to sell Box 5.”

“But Monsieur! The ghost--”

“I won’t have this!” Stryker exclaimed, rising from his place at the desk, “I won’t have some elaborate prank rule my opera house! And no, don’t you argue that it’s not, it is! There is no opera ghost, do you understand? I want you to sell Box 5.”

Madame Darkholme nodded. “As you wish, Monsieur. I fear only what he will do to us afterward.”

“Does the Opera Ghost write your paycheck? No? Then do as I say and get out.” Stryker commanded, sitting down again and beginning to cross out the red rules in black fountain pen.

Madame Darkholme curtsied and left, muttering under her breath on the way out “I hope he is not merciful with you.”

From down in the bowels of the opera house, the phantom heard her. He agreed - he would not be forgiving. He would be exacting, and the new manager would learn just how real the Opera Ghost was.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day at the opera, Charles was missing from his dorm.

He left two notes in his dressing room - one telling the manager he was taking a week long leave of absence. Stryker could not care less. Miss Frost was recovered from her mysterious illness, and another chorus boy could take Charles’ normal part. The note for Countess MacTaggert was the problem, apparently. 

“Countess,” Stryker said in exasperation, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I fail to see the problem.”

“The problem is that something is wrong with Charles!” Moira said for the millionth time, stomping around his office. “You wouldn’t understand, but you need to get the police to look for him. His note-”

“Let me see this note!” The manager said, snatching the waving parchment from her hands.

_ Moira, _

_   I’m sorry for pretending not to recognize you. Of course I remember my playmate with the red scarf. But I am going away for a while, now, and I have to ask that you do not try to contact me. We cannot regain our childhood, my dear, no matter how much we may want to.  _

_                                                                                                                                                                                                               -Charles _

“You see!” The Countess exclaimed. “Tell me there is not something suspicious about that note!”

Stryker, for one, was tired of mysterious notes. “Mademoiselle  Countess, all I see here is a young man that desires his space. There is nothing sinister about that.”

All Moira could think of was the mysterious suitor in the dressing room.“But Monsieur, I have this feeling-”

“We cannot call the police on the basis of feelings, Countess!” Stryker shouted, throwing the note back at her. “I suggest you do as the note says and leave Monsieur Xavier alone for this week. Now, if you please, mademoiselle, I do have an opera to run.” He bowed with condescension and left her alone in his office.

Moira huffed and looked back down at Charles’ note. Her eyes softened. “I know you’re in trouble, Charles,” she whispered to the empty office, “I just don’t know how to help.”

\--

“Your soul is a beautiful gift, my friend. I am flattered to be the recipient.” Erik paused, struggling with the decision he had already made. No, he had to go through with it. “The angels wept tonight.” He said softly, broken.

Charles had to know tonight. Erik seriously doubted that Charles actually believed that he was the angel that Brian Xavier sent, but Erik can’t keep up the act any longer. He was broken because he knew that it would be harder now. This was a dream, the way it was, and that dream would have to be broken to let the truth in. What if Charles didn’t accept? What if Erik was about to lose the one person who made him happiest.

“Angel?”

How cruel that name was. An endearment to others, an indication of a love he could never have.

“Angel, master of music, dear friend? Have you left me already?”

Erik snapped back to reality and set his jaw. Right. Here we go. Deep breaths. “No, Charles, I am here.” His hand hovered over the secret mechanism above the one way mirror. “And I think it is time you see me. Look to the mirror, my friend, and I will sing to you so you are not frightened.”

Just another performance. Breathe.

Charles stood and faced the mirror before Erik even began to sing. He had to push through the bushels of flowers offered in appreciation for his accomplishment - Erik’s accomplishment - to get close. When Erik began singing, he let the music take a hold of him, move through him, absorb him. When he became the music, he pressed the switch.

Erik had always felt powerful when he became music. It was the same feeling that he got from letting himself go and feel all of the metal in the opera house, the magnetic fields in it and beyond. Magnetism and music were forces of nature, and he was there, a part of them, directing them, master of them. His scars didn’t matter when he was a part of the music, nothing mattered at all. He felt like the king of everything.

And yet, he had never felt so powerful as when Charles was walking towards him, completely entranced by his voice. Beautiful, smart, kind, talented, perfect Charles was walking towards him with dazed eyes, mouth agape, as if Erik were some sort of mesmerizing angel. When Erik held his hand out for him, Charles took it readily. 

Erik sang to him the whole way back to his home in the basement of the opera. The stage horse (that would be returned and stolen over and over, every time Charles ventured down here, because he looked like a fairytale prince on that stallion and Erik would _ not  _ deprive himself of that image) was as calm and well trained as he always was, and it was a smooth ride down to the lake. Charles, still looking at Erik with dreamy eyes, allowing him to help him off the horse and gently into the little canoe. Erik rowed home and sang, and wished that he’d never have to stop singing, because he wanted to be the object of Charles’ awed gaze forever.

He helped Charles out of the boat and used his power to shift the metal doorway of his house open. He led Charles in and closed the wall up behind him. The last notes of the song faded. This is it. Charles Xavier was in his house. Show time’s over. If only he was ready for the truth.

\--

The Angel had never sung for Charles before, and now he knew why.

His voice was powerful, gorgeous and haunting. The helmet which shadowed his glowing eyes and the gentleman’s attire probably helped, but Charles would’ve been perfectly content to listen to only that voice for the rest of time. It scared him a little, that he knew from the start that he would do anything that voice asked of him. And yet, he didn’t want to fight it. Of course he took the hand that was offered to him. He couldn’t refuse.

The whole thing felt like a dream, one that he only woke from when the music faded away. Charles looked around, and became aware of an oddly furnished room, mostly fitted in red, purple, and black, lit only by a smattering of candles throughout. There was a piano in this room, an armchair, some books, and nothing else. There appeared to be no doors.

“I can open the other rooms if you’d like.” The man said, apparently sensing his discomfort. He opened the door into a blue room with a wave of his hand, and shut it again to demonstrate.

“Metallokinesis.” Charles said in awe. How had he missed such a wonderful mutation? Oh, amongst the singing, and the...wait a moment.

Charles turned abruptly, and backed away from the enchanting metal bender. “Who are you?” He asked, looking around frantically for a weapon. He tried to search for the man’s mind, but as with the first time he heard the voice, he couldn’t find anything.

The man sighed. “Charles, please calm yourself. I...I am not the Angel of Music. My name is Erik, and I am your servant. I would sooner drown in the lake outside than lie a hand on you. Stop eyeing that candlestick, it’s antique. And metal, I could stop it anyway.”

Charles was embarrassed to be caught, and calmed down a bit just to tamper the feeling of silliness. “Fine.” Stand up straight. Breathe. “Erik? You have been tutoring me all this time?”

Erik nodded. “And I hope to continue.” He fidgeted nervously. “If you would want to. I… I care deeply for you, Charles, and it is because of this that I could not continue to lie. You could stay here sometimes, if you like - or I could come up to the dressing room still! - and we could continue your studies.” 

This is all so strange. Charles sat down in the armchair to process this properly. Erik must have guessed at his unease. He knelt on the floor next to the armchair, clutching at the side of it, but never touching Charles. “Charles, please. I am the same voice, the same tutor, the same companion. I’m sorry I lied to you.” His voice broke. “Please, Charles. You are the only joy that I have.”

Charles felt his heart shatter. Hesitantly, he reached a hand out and set it on the cool metal of the helmet. “Alright, my friend. We can continue the lessons, Erik.”

Erik bowed his head as if he had been granted a great mercy. “Thank you.” He said quietly. “Thank you.”

Charles nodded, though Erik couldn’t see, and allowed them to rest like that for a while. If nothing else, the tutoring should continue. It would allow Charles to figure out this poor man, why he lives in the basement of the opera house, why Charles was his only joy. Yes, he had to stay.

“If you allow me pen and paper to write a few letters, I could stay here now.” Charles offered.

“Allow you?” Erik sprang up and got parchment and a quill pen and inkwell from the heap of books and papers and came back, offering them to him. “Charles, you have only to ask, and you may have anything you would like.” He paused, and a maroon gloved hand unconsciously reached up to his helmet. “Except to see my face. That is the only thing I will ever keep from you, Charles. You may have anything and everything else.”

Charles nodded and took the writing materials from him. “Thank you.” As he penned a couple of letters, he thought how strange it was to ask to remain hidden. Why was he down here, and covered up as he was? It seemed...scary, and suspicious. But Charles wanted so much to like him. His voice, his tutoring, the small talk and the chess games...he wanted to be Erik’s friend, but he wanted to understand. And he had a feeling that if he wanted to understand, he would need the very thing he had been forbidden to ask for. He needed to see Erik’s face.

Well, then, maybe he wouldn’t ask.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry this update has taken so long. We're going to have some speculation and a little bit of fun this chapter before shit starts getting real. Let me know what you think!

When Charles woke up, it took a minute to reorient himself and remember that he was in a sort of guest room.

Erik’s guest room.

It was all in blue. The carpet, the curtains that covered nothing, the couch, the four poster plush bed that Charles had slept in. The adjoining bathroom was also in all blue (and had a real door instead of just a metal sheet, thank god). The only light that Charles could see the room by as he sat up and stretched were the few lamps and candles that hung about. Of course, as a man hiding in an opera basement, Erik wouldn’t have access to electricity. Well, and maybe he didn’t even know of it. Charles had no clue how long Erik had been down here. He repressed a shudder at the thought of confining himself like this. How did Erik manage?

Charles got up and went about his morning almost as usual. Erik was kind enough to give him a nightgown last night, but Charles had been planning on wearing his clothes from yesterday this morning. As he bent down to pick them up from the floor, though, he caught a peek of the closet, and decided, hell, why not open it? He stood and slid the door back all the way, and was shocked to find a number of expensive suits and casual wear. It would’ve made sense if they were tall enough to be for Erik, but all of the suits at least were clearly made for a much shorter man. And all the wrong colors, black or red seemed to be more Erik, these were all blue, white, brown, or charcoal...Charles’ colors...no. No, it couldn’t be. But, well, he had to try…

On impulse, Charles decided to try on the first suit, a charcoal one that had been paired with a sky blue button down, with a tie that mixed both colors. Everything fit perfectly, as though Charles had had these tailored himself. Frantically, Charles tried on almost everything in the closet, finding it to be all the same. Everything fit. It was all perfect, every outfit looked wonderful on him. Charles felt sick.

When had Erik done this? Did he know that Charles was going to stay here? Was he going to make him stay if Charles had said no? Where had he gotten these measurements? Had he taken them from Charles’ other clothes, or..? Oh, all the terrifying possibilities. 

A knock at the wall nearly made Charles jump out of his skin. “Charles?” Erik called. “Are you awake, and decent? I’d like to speak with you.”

Charles regained control of his breathing long enough to say “One moment!” and hastily stuffed all of the fancy, creepily well-fitting clothes back into the closet, quickly redressing in his old clothes. Once he felt presentable, he called “Alright, come in.”

Erik opened up the wall, dressed in his customary suit and shadowy helmet. He seemed surprised to see Charles dressed in his crumpled clothing from yesterday. “There are clothes in the closet for you, if you wish. I think they should fit.”

How could he speak so casually? “I’ll just wear this today, thank you.” Charles answered, upset at how tense that sentence came out.

Erik shrugged, and decided to proceed with his business. “I came to tell you that I’m going out for some time to take care of a few things. I’ve opened up most of the house, and it is at your disposal. Do you need me to pick up anything for you?”

_ Nothing else from you, _ Charles wanted to answer, but his mouth betrayed him. “My toiletries from my dorm, if you can manage. And if any one left a note for me…”

Erik’s expression darkened at the mention of notes, but he didn’t refuse. “As you wish.” He answered, turning to leave. “I’ll be back this afternoon for our lesson.”

“Alright.” Charles murmured, confused, shaken, and lost in thought.  _ Oh, what have I gotten myself into? _

\--

How idiotic management could be. 

When Monsieur Stryker had sold out Box Five, he got complaints right away. It was drafty, the chairs kept being rearranged when one stood up, they could hear their neighbor’s sardonic complaints, it simply wouldn’t do. Some of the more superstitious patrons thought they felt a chill in the haunted box. Erik watched it all with hilarity.

And Madame Darkholme, with vindication. Stryker could see it as she cleaned up for the night, counting an abundance of money from the ticket sales, the way she stopped him with a “Box Five had another complaint, sir.” It simply would not do. Stryker would sit in Box Five himself and dispel this nonsense. Of course, that was just what Erik wanted.

_ How long will it take,  _ he wondered,  _ to have him run screaming out the door? _

Stryker took Box Five that night and found it in silence. Halfway through the first act, however, he could begin to hear a voice.

“Honestly, why is Ms. Frost in the lead role? She’s got a nice enough voice, but she’s certainly over doing it on the high notes.”

Stryker started. The voice seemed to be coming from right next to him. He looked around and saw no one. He leaned out of his box, but only women were seated in the box next to his, and the voice was decidedly male. Stryker went back to watching.

“Ah...see that high not, particularly shrill.”

“Now see here!” Stryker stood and whipped around, but found nothing. When he went to sit, he found that his chair was not where he had expected it to be, and fell right on his ass. He could hear laughter all around him. He was starting to get scared. Stryker scrambled back up and started beating the curtains, searching the shadows.

“I’ll get you! You idiotic prankster! You think you can do this to me? I’ll catch you yet!”

Stryker was struck with a chill, his rings and the metal tip of his cane becoming particularly cold. “But can you catch a ghost, Monsieur Stryker?” The voice whispered in his ear. The candlesticks began melting.

Seven minutes. Seven minutes of haunting was all it took to get Stryker running out of Box Five, chased by Erik’s laughter.

It was with great satisfaction that Madame Darkholme informed customers the next day that, regrettably, Box Five was no longer for sale.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Life has been rough, but I wanted to get an update out for May. I'll likely be updating more regularly now that school is out. Enjoy!

Breathe. It’s just lessons. It’s just going to be the same lessons the Angel gave him. Except in a secret house in the basement. Wearing a new suit that fit too well for having never had a tailoring. With the man who kidnapped him. Oh god, he’s going to be murdered. 

Breathe, Charles, breathe.

“Do you like it?”

Charles jumped and whirled around, clutching his hand to his chest, the other hand fumbling for a weapon.

Charles couldn’t see Erik’s face, but he could’ve sworn he was frowning. “My apologies, Charles. I did not mean to startle you.” He shifted awkwardly. “I am told that I move rather silently. I shall be sure to announce myself in the future.”

Charles nodded and forced himself to relax. With visible effort, his hands dropped to his sides. “Yes, that would be nice while I’m getting adjusted, thank you.” He swallowed and tried to school his breathing into a more normal pace. “What did you ask?”

Erik gestured with a gloved hand to the pipe organ that Charles had been examining. “Do you like it? You can play it, as I said, everything here is now yours.”

Charles suppressed a shiver at the thought of owning anything in this gruesome grotto, and instead gave Erik a thin smile. “I don’t know how to play. Perhaps you could play for me?”

Erik nodded. “If you wish. Have you eaten?”

Charles nodded, fiddling with his signet ring nervously. “Yes. It was kind of you to leave out meals for me.” He had been so startled that he almost forgot his mission to learn about Erik. There were so many mysteries. “Did you eat? I only had half of my supper, if you wanted the rest, or I’m sure I could make you something…”

“No. I don’t eat much.” Erik answered tersely.

“Why not?”

“What would you like me to play for you?” Erik asked instead of answering.

But Charles would not be deterred like this. “You said you’ve been told you move quietly. Do you have friends?”

“Charles…”

“You only forbid me from one thing,” Charles said quickly, “and that I could have and do anything else. I’d like to have a few answers now.”

Erik sighed and approached him. Charles flinched when he got close, but Erik merely sat on the piano bench in front of the pipe organ. “I don’t eat because I’m not often hungry, and am used to infrequent meals. I have an acquaintance in Madame Darkholme, and one other acquaintance who visits when he believes I’m in trouble. Is that satisfactory?”

Charles gathered that he wasn’t going to get the other acquaintance’s name, so he nodded in aquiessence.  

“Good. Now, Charles,” Erik said, turning to face the pipe organ, “you didn’t answer my question. What would you like me to play for you?”

Charles faltered, not able to think of anything he might be able to sing to in a satisfactory manner at the moment, nor any classical piece. Erik had the effect of making the mind go blank. Finally, he looked at the music stand on the pipe organ. “What about this?” He said, indicating the sheet music already there.

Erik looked up, seeming not to have noticed the piece previously. He snatched it before Charles could get a good look at it. “Not this. It isn’t finished yet.”

Charles forgot his  nervous terror and fell back into curiosity. “Oh, so you compose? And this is your piece? I wish I had gotten a better look at it.”

Erik’s head fell down to look at the sheet music in his lap. “It isn’t finished.” He said again, sounding a little...timid?

“And you built this as well, didn’t you?” Asked Charles, examining the pipe organ anew. “The pipes are specially designed, yes?”

Erik nodded and looked up at the pipes with him. “Yes. I didn’t make it all myself, of course. It was old and broken. I made all of the pipes new so it would work properly.”

“And could you play it using only your powers?” Charles asked excitedly.

“I suppose, but what would be the fun in that?” Again, it was like Charles could hear his smirk.

“Then you could at least play the piece you composed. I don’t care if it’s not finished. Please?”  _ Anything,  _ Charles pleaded,  _ give me anything to show me that you aren’t some murderous psychopath, please, show me the care you put into your art, that’s something, isn’t it? _

Charles almost thought that his powers were finally working, because Erik capitulated almost immediately. “Fine. As you wish.” Erik scooted over on the bench. “Come, sit.”

Charles sat obediently, hands folded in his lap. Erik placed his hands on the keys, and without replacing the sheet music on the stand, began to play.

From the first note, Charles was mesmerized. The organ had been remade very well, each note sounding loud and clear in the enclosed space, and Charles was saddened for a moment thinking of how such a beautiful instrument deserved to be in the concert hall upstairs instead of secreted away like this. The music soon took him away from such earthly concerns. The depth of the music was astounding. Charles felt this way when he looked into a mind, the few times he delved deep enough to see the soul. It began sounding bitter sweet, then swelled into anger and sorrow. It felt like running, hiding, surviving, and his own pulse quickened in response. There was a decrescendo, and soft notes and upbeat melodies that spoke of a comforting love. This continued splendidly, for a time, and then there was sudden, furious anger.

Charles’ eyes snapped open. He hadn’t realized that they had been closed. When he looked over to Erik, he was still enveloped in playing, in the pain and anger and loudness of the piece. It was horrible. Erik must’ve experienced this, he must’ve hurt this much, there was no other way to compose something so moving. Charles’ cheeks were wet. He hadn’t realized that he’d been crying either. 

Oh, how desperately Charles wanted Erik to be comforted. To hold him, to kiss him, even. To protect him from the evils this world placed upon him. Before the idea fled, as if in a trance, Charles slowly brought his hands up to the helmet, and quickly took it away.

The music ended in a cacophony as Erik slammed his hands on the keys and stood, turned away from Charles, covering his face with his hands and screaming “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My once a month posting plan isn't going so well lol. Have another chapter! Now we get to learn what made Erik into the Phantom....
> 
> Note: This does involve the story of Magneto's daughter Anya, from the comics. Nothing is described in detail, but she is killed in a fire and there is a brief description of burn marks on Erik's face.

Charles was on the ground, too afraid to get up, too afraid to even look up from the floor. Erik might’ve hit him, or he might’ve just fallen, he can’t quite remember. It was too loud to remember. It was too loud to do anything but listen, and oh god, does listening hurt. 

It wasn’t that Erik can’t shield, is that is presence is just so _strong_. His mind is unique, and would be easily recognizable. It was structured, cool, and might be comforting if his mind were at peace. But Erik wasn’t at peace. He was screaming. And from what Charles can gather, Erik has been screaming for a long time. It was like drowning. All Charles could hear and feel and see is the depth of Erik’s pain. Death, pain, oppression, fear, anger, loneliness, isolation. Yearning to die. Charles could feel it all, crashing into his mind over and over and over again.

“MAKE IT STOP!” Someone yelled, “MAKE IT STOP! CALM YOUR MIND, MAKE IT STOP!” It’s Charles yelling, begging for the pain to end.

And suddenly, it did.

Charles went back to feeling nothing of Erik at all, and that’s worse.

Shaking, Charles raised his head to look at Erik. He was sobbing, helmet replaced,with his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he mutters through sobs, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Charles touches his cheek, which he can feel throbbing now that the noise in his mind has quieted. Erik hit him then. Charles stands up, and is about to make some comment about how he understands reacting that way when you feel threatened, before he realizes that Erik is not talking about when he smacked him. Of course not. Erik is fully aware of Charles’ telepathy, and he was screaming at Erik to stop. Just being exposed to Erik’s mind hurt. Erik was apologizing for simply _being_. Any platitudes Charles wanted to offer died on his lips.

It was quiet for a while. Erik’s slowing sobs were only sound in the basement house. Finally, Charles quietly asked “How long has it felt like that?” Erik swallowed his tears and sat silent. He was having a hard time answering, and with good reason, Charles thought. “You don’t have to answer,” Charles added, before Erik came to the conclusion that all of this was a mistake, “I...directly went against your wishes and invaded your privacy. I understand if you don’t want to...talk about...any of that.”

Erik nodded and the room again fell silent. Charles was considering getting his personal effects from the guest room and trying to make his way up through the opera house himself when Erik quietly answered “Twenty years. It’s been...it’s been bad for ten years. I don’t know what you felt but...that’s how long it’s been.”

Charles nodded, and inched closer before he thought better of it and stayed standing where he was. “May I ask what happened?”

Erik looked up at him, and for once, Charles could see the eyes underneath the shadow of the helmet. They were green, or aqua, or maybe hazel. The color didn’t even matter, Charles knew they were beautiful eyes by the intensity of their gaze. “If I do,” Erik said slowly, making sure he met Charles’ eyes and bore that intensity into each word, “I can’t ever let you go, Charles. You will always have to be the man who knows the monster in the basement, and I can’t condemn you to that. It must be your choice. Because if I tell you,” his eyes were watering, “you will know secrets that I can’t let anyone else know.”

Charles wanted to think hard about making this decision, he really did. He even pretended to, not answering right away, but he knew his answer before Erik had even asked. “Ok,” he said, “Ok. I want you to tell me.”

Erik looked surprised, and even skeptical of Charles’ answer, but nodded. He took his eyes off of Charles’ and fixed his gaze on the floor. “I had a family, once.” Charles nodded, slowly sitting down where he had been standing. “I had a wife, and a daughter.” He hesitated. “I don’t…”

“I don’t need to know names, if you don’t want me too,” Charles interrupted, “you can keep those.”

Erik nodded, and was grateful that the helmet prevented Charles from picking up their names anyway. _Magda. My dear Anya._ “I was peaceful. I didn’t seek trouble. But...I suppose you know how things are for people like us. The people in my village found out about my power. They set fire to my house, thinking I was inside…” Eriks voice caught, and Charles could hear his tears. “Magda was running errands, but Anya…” He began crying, and couldn’t go on.

Hesitantly, Charles touched Erik’s shoulder, meaning to be comforting, but Erik flinched. Charles’ hand withdrew, and Erik suppressed his pain. He looked at Charles, and put his hands on the helmet. “I don’t have this here solely to keep out telepaths. I’ve put up stronger shields if…”

“I’m prepared.” Charles interrupted again. “Go ahead.”

Erik carefully removed his helmet and looked up at Charles. Nothing was hidden in shadow now. Half of Erik’s face was marred, spotted, almost drooping a little. The mottled skin was red and yellow, and it looked as though in addition to being damaged, it had become irritated from the way Erik hid it. Charles clutched his hand to his chest to keep from reaching out. He was tearing up. “Oh, Erik…”

Erik looked down again, turning to hide the burnt half of his face. “I ran in after her. I tried to...I was too late. Part of the house fell in on me. I used the nails in the boards to get it off of me.”

“Your power saved you.” Charles said in wonder.

Erik snorted. “Yes, saved me. It also was released in my anger.” Any trace of a smile dropped. “I killed them, Charles. I killed all of them. All of those men in the village, for killing my daughter. My wife didn’t exactly take the slaughter of fifty people well. They deserved it, though,” he said firmly, “they deserved it.”

Charles could only nod. He doesn’t know what that pain is, how could he begin to tell Erik...but then, he understood why Erik’s wife was scared of him.

“She left, and I was hunted for their murders,” Erik continued. “And this,” he said, vaguely gesturing to his face, “isn’t really helpful when you’re trying to hide. But rich contractors don’t tend to ask questions if you do your job well enough. So, I came here when the Palais Garnier was in its final stages and helped perfect the design. In the process, I built myself this hovel, so I could have some semblance of peace. I’ve been here since.” He glanced up at Charles. “And even though you promised, knowing you were getting into something too close to me to let go, you still want to run away.”

Charles didn’t deny it. It was true, and it would be an insult to Erik’s honesty to say otherwise. “There must be another way, my friend. It’s not as dangerous here, anymore. There are more mutants in Paris every day, and no one could know you from your other life here, surely.”

Erik snorted, stood, and replaced the helmet on his head. Again, Charles felt the cold, empty darkness where a well-schooled mind full of pain should have been. “You are naive, Charles. You are suggesting I go back up there...and I can never leave this prison I’ve made for myself.”

This time, Charles did move a bit closer. “But you don’t have to...Erik, it doesn’t have to be this lonely.”

“Look me in the eye, Charles,” Erik said, likely not understanding that he didn’t have to demand it to assert that power, “Knowing what you know, what I’ve done and continue to do -- surely you’ve heard the rumors from those tittering ballerinas -- having seen my face, do you believe that I could ever earn true friendship as myself, instead of the ghost I masquerade as? Do you honestly think that I find love again?”

_Do you think you could love me?_

The unspoken question hung in the air. Charles was not unaware of Erik’s feelings, he’d made them perfectly clear. What was unclear was what Charles should say. Surely, he would never tell Erik that he was unworthy of love or friendship. But to promise love to such a dangerous man…?

“...I think it’s possible.” Charles answered carefully.

Erik looked away from him. “Will you stay?” He asked quietly. “Take your lessons from me, hold off on courtship until you are at a new house, like you promised before?”

This needed no further thought. “Yes.”

Erik fell to his knees, hugging Charles’ own, whispering his ardent thank yous into the hem of Charles’ jacket. Charles put a hand on top of the smooth metal of the helmet. He wanted to cry, or throw up, or both. A part of him, a bigger part than he wanted to admit to, wanted to run away, even though he had willingly promised to stay. A smaller voice whispered that he was being this kind to Erik out of fear. He looked up at the ceiling and tried to ignore it.

High above in the main floor of the opera house, word had gotten out that the young man Mr. Xavier, who had taken Paris by storm only nights before, was not to be seen or contacted for weeks. Countess McTaggert was still fretting, and there were rumors abound about his whereabouts. An intimidating man, known to the opera only as The Devil for his appearance, heard all, and understood what others did not. He’d have to speak with Erik.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That's chapter one and done! Nice!
> 
> I'm struggling to figure out who Charles' Raoul is. Let me know who you think it should be in the comments!


End file.
